


Longing For You Forever

by i_am_a_hog



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Francis disagrees with James, Francis is also traumatised, Jeames has ptsd, Jeames is blind in one eye, Jeames is depressed, Jeames thinks he's fuckign broken, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_a_hog/pseuds/i_am_a_hog
Summary: James is back in London a broken man, waiting for Francis to act on something he might not even feel.One day he receives a letter with an invitation.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 15
Kudos: 98





	Longing For You Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silavon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silavon/gifts).



> Yeehaw! Welcome to Life Eternal 2: Electric Boogaloo, one day I'll have used every line from the song as a fic title hnghhhhh
> 
> No research done whatsoever, so enjoy my historical bullshitting. Also unbetaed but I read thru it like 5 times, so we should be good
> 
> Enjoy!!

They were back. Back in London, back in England, back in the so-called civilized world. They were back and James Fitzjames felt more out of place than he had ever felt before.

The years in the arctic had changed him – aged him – beyond recognition. Others might not feel the same, looking at his face or his hair or even his posture, but James felt like an old man. A man on his side of forty should not feel the way he did; frail, his heart fluttering at times, so that he was not sure if it would return to a regular beat. His legs were aching constantly, and he could not stand for extended periods of time. He walked with a cane and he had little hope of ever regaining anywhere near the amount of muscle, strength, he had possessed before. His hair, chopped off and now slowly growing back out, had lost its shine and gained a lot of grey.

He was blind in one eye. That was arguably the hardest thing to deal with. He had lost his depth perception, his coordination, his ease with which he used to do just about everything.

James Fitzjames had lost more than he had known he possessed, and he found himself missing his old life dearly, most of all because now, he felt broken.

He was broken.

Compared to him, Francis had suffered much fewer physical injuries. He carried himself much the same, spoke much the same and to the unknowing onlooker probably looked the same. But he too had aged. There was more grey in his hair, the lines in his forehead were deeper. His eyes no longer held the intense blue colour they had before; they too had greyed into deep shadows, that scared James.

Something had happened in the north; something that had made James soft, longing for Francis, for the shadows in his eyes to lift, for him to see James. For James to be enough, just once in his life. He wanted to feel like he was enough, the way he was – in front of a man who knew him more closely than perhaps any other. Francis knew where he came from, knew his history, his weaknesses, even the condition of his wrecked body.

But contrary to his hopes, Francis was distant now and James did not know why. The holes in his memory spanned weeks; he had no recollection of saying or doing anything that might have repelled Francis. The possibility was there, however, that he had confessed to Francis. That he had told him about his feelings, his desires, when he had thought he was going to die. Of course, that would scare Francis away. He would have rejected him in a healthy state. The sight of James dying, bleeding out of open wounds, from his scalp, his gums, his eye… he imagined it to be a horror.

Of course, Francis would reject him. He had never shown any inclination towards such interests, never let anything slip up. The last thing James was aware of, had been his obviously serious feelings for Sophia Cracroft. James was no Sophia, nor any other woman Francis might fancy. Nor a woman at all; there was no reason to assume that Francis would not reject him. And now, in his broken, frail form, a shadow of his former self, so would everybody else.

James had taken up lodgings in a flat, inexpensive and at ground level, so he did not have to climb stairs. There were nice rooms, actual space for James to spend his time, but on the days on which he made it out of bed at all, he stayed by the fire in the sitting room; sometimes reading – an activity, which tired him much more than before, due to his loss of sight in one eye – sometimes dozing off in the almost suffocating heat. He knew he had a nice and quiet life; he should not complain, but somehow James could not come to rest, even now.

In truth, he missed Francis. He knew, the captain was staying with Sir James Clark Ross, a friendship James did not find it in himself to envy. But he was lonely, waiting perhaps for Francis to make a move he would never make. The loneliness was unbearable at times. Worse than in the cold, worse than in the arctic where he had thought he would die. He felt more alone in his flat, hearing the faint noises of the city filtering into his rooms.

The days passed, James existed, life went on, even if entirely undeserved. Sometimes James wished himself among the dead. Forgotten in the ice. None of the sorrows of the living; eating, drinking, thinking. An aching heart.

He tried to numb himself with wine, whiskey. Then gin, sherry, whatever he could find. He was acutely aware that this was not a good way to distract himself, to cope with his emotions and his physical state, but he tried it anyway. Yet, all the alcohol did was to make his pain more prominent. It led him down mental paths of imagining a different outcome. Francis might reciprocate his feelings, or Francis might bury him in the tundra. At those times, both of the alternatives seemed like the better option to James’ flayed heartstrings, his pulled-apart soul.

* * *

James blinked himself out of the fog in his mind. He had been asleep in an armchair by the south-facing window, enjoying the warm sun of an early September afternoon until his servant girl quietly rapped her knuckles against the open door of the room.

“Hm?” James uttered. He was not a man of many words, nowadays. There were no tales left to tell for him.

“A letter arrived for you, Sir.”

“Oh?” he made and began to get up, coming to stand next to the back of the chair, using it as a crutch while he held his other hand out for the letter. James noticed the tremor in his own fingers and clamped them into a fist, before reaching out. The tremor was not gone.

“Thank you, Lizzie” he smiled before he looked down at the letter between his fingertips. The girl left the room quietly and left James staring at the handwriting.

It was from Francis.

Heart beginning to pound faster, James opened the letter – fine paper, none that Francis would buy for himself, which meant he was still staying with the Rosses. He was still close.

_Dear James,_

To read even just this line, strokes of the ink familiar, stark against the cream colour of the paper, made James feel a kind of warmth in his chest. It felt as if Francis himself was here, speaking the words out loud.

James leaned back against the armchair when his left knee began to shake.

_I hope this letter finds you well. Not a day goes by that I do not think of you and wonder about your recovery._

James swallowed. There was not much of a recovery to speak of. It made him feel even more like a disappointment. Drawing a deep breath, he went on reading.

 _These past months that I have stayed with Sir James and his family have been wonderful, but I do find myself in need of a rather more quiet night. I could fill pages with both my tales about the Rosses and my inquiries after your own constitution, but I shall not.  
_James felt his heart sink at those words, the hand on the back of the armchair cramping into the cushion.

_Instead, I invite you to dinner. I will make reservations with any restaurant of your choice (you are surely better suited to choose such things than me) at any time within the next week. Or the week after that, as I am unfamiliar with your plans._

James huffed at that, letting go of the armchair as he relaxed. Francis could not know, that his social life was about as eventful as winters on King William Island.

_Instead of exhausting our respective supplies of ink, we can have a good conversation, which I am very much looking forward to. Of course, you are free to refuse my offer if you wish to – or if your condition dictates you to. Whatever your decision, I shall remain_

_Your dear friend,_

_FRM Crozier._

The signature was familiar.

James let out a shuddering breath. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand; reading had indeed become a chore.

Then, a smile spread across his face and suddenly, he felt more alive than he had in months.

* * *

Two days, one answering letter, and a final confirming note later, the initial joy James had felt upon reading Francis’ letter was largely gone. In its place settled doubt, heartbreak, fear. He had spent the day in bed, barely ingested a cup of tea, and he felt miserable. In just an hour, Francis would come knocking at his door, demanding him for a nice evening out, unaware that James had not had a nice evening since they were back. Unaware that James wanted so much more from Francis than one nice evening. Unaware that James’ recovery was slow, almost non-existing since they had last seen each other.

James sighed again and willed himself out of bed, made his body go through something that resembled the routine he once had.

He did not have many nice civilian clothes and he could not even imagine himself in a uniform now. It was a downright absurdity. But James did own one nice suit and a cravat someone had gifted him upon his return. He had forgotten who.

James put on his clothes slowly, then made his way to the sitting room where he spent the rest of the time in an anxious state, trying not to get up and pace, as his mind so urgently demanded. His legs would be exhausted enough after the evening ahead.

When someone knocked on the door, James got up so quickly that his knees complained; sometimes they still felt like they had been replaced with jagged rocks. He reached for his cane and brought his other hand to his scalp to smooth down his hair. It was slowly getting back to a length James liked, but it was not yet there yet. The grey was noticeable.

So was the cane. His legs. His eye. James swallowed and made his way to the door.

Another knock.

 _Impatient_ , James thought to himself and at any other time he would have smiled, but at this moment all he could do was force himself to open the door without embarrassing himself somehow.

The brass under his fingers was cool. The door creaked slightly. Impressions, James had witnessed hundreds of times. Now, they felt more meaningful.

“James.” Francis stood outside, dressed in a sleek coat, hat, his posture impeccable.

A wave of emotion washed over James. He had not been aware of how much he missed Francis’ voice nor of how overwhelmed he would be to hear it again.

“Francis.” He did not meet his eyes.

Francis’ hand reached out, as if to pull James close, then sank again, and with it, James’ heart.

“Hello.”

A stupid thing to say. Francis was still quiet, so James stepped aside, beckoned him in while putting on shoes and coat.

After a moment of awkward silence, Francis cleared his throat.

“How have you been? Busy, I assume?”

James huffed out an amused breath.

“Rather the opposite, I’m afraid. Not much to do here, as a blind and melancholic cri- … man.”

He looked up then, out of habit more than anything, only to meet something in Francis’ eyes he had never seen there before. He could not pinpoint it and a second later, Francis looked away, leaving James to tie his shoes.

“I trust you had a nice time with the Rosses?”

Silence. Just as James wanted to repeat his question, it seemed to register with Francis.

“Yes. Very nice.” An audible breath. “Enough to fill ten dinners worth conversations.”

James’ heart jumped at that, at the prospect of ten more dinners, ten more times to see Francis, spend time with him. He knew that was not Francis’ meaning.

* * *

Dinner was lovely. The restaurant was a five-minute walk from James’ flat and ever since Francis had put his hand on James’ arm at the entrance to enforce that _yes, the reservation was for the two of them and no he had not spoken of a lady when making it_ , their interaction had somehow become easier. The ice, formed by months of distance, was broken and Francis had entertained James all through their dinner with stories of the Rosses and his time there. If James had spared a moment of his time for rational thought, he might have realized that their roles were much reversed – James drowning in melancholy, on his third glass of wine, and Francis telling grand stories. But James did not have time for coherent thoughts. Between his _hmm_ s and _aah_ s and occasional questions about details, he had a good time listening, laughing at one or the other of Francis’ dry jokes and forcing himself to look away from where Francis’ tongue darted from between his lips to chase after a speck of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

When they stepped back outside, the air was colder, and James instinctively drew his coat closer around his frame. Francis’ hand was back on his elbow in an instant. A warmth, similar to how James had felt upon receiving Francis’ letter, spread through his body, the chill of the evening air forgotten.

They came to a halt at James’ door.

For a moment, both of them seemed lost for words again, then James swallowed and looked at Francis, directly.

“Would you come in for a cup of tea?”

It took a never-ending ten seconds, before Francis responded and James had half a mind to retract his offer again.

“Of course.” There was something there again; the same kind of expression James had seen earlier, but he still could not put his finger to what it was exactly.

Shedding their coats and hats, James led Francis through to the sitting room, offering a seat on the sofa, while he put a kettle on for their tea.

When he returned with two steaming cups, minutes later, Francis was staring into the bright orange flames in the fireplace.

“Francis,” James said softly, perhaps too softly, holding a cup out to the other man.

When Francis took it, their fingertips touched briefly. James swallowed; those hands had kept him alive once, had fed him, bathed him, cleaned his wounds. Now, they kept their distance, but James remembered, however dimly. He remembered and he wanted to be touched again. He wanted to appreciate it. He wanted to slot his fingers between Francis’. But most importantly, he wanted to touch in return. It was improper to think such thoughts of a friend who would not reciprocate these desires, but James was weak and for a moment, before he ripped himself from this absurd excursion of his mind, he wondered how Francis’ strong chest would feel beneath his fingertips, beneath his lips, his cheek.

With a groan, he sat down next to Francis, suppressing those thoughts and emotions, forcing himself to remain firmly in the present. His left leg was trembling slightly, and James rubbed the heel of his hand across his thigh. It probably would not help much, but it managed to somewhat ease his nerves.

James took a sip of his tea, when Francis spoke up.

“I’ve missed you.”

James nearly choked on his tea and could only barely disguise it as clearing his throat.

“Hmm,” he made. But Francis seemed intent on making him lose his composure, as he went on.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I think about you every day.”

James looked over at Francis, whose eyes were shining out at James, the shadows in them gone for now; his breath hitched in his throat as he waited for Francis to go on, but he turned away, back towards the flames and fiddled with his teacup. James wanted to reach over, urge Francis to continue, but he restrained himself.

Just when he thought it safe to have another go at his tea, Francis continued.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner.”

The first thing that came to James’ mind was a mocking response along the lines of _Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, apologizing? To me?_ but then he thought better of it, knowing that this was big, that Francis was showing him a side of himself, that was guarded, stowed away unless forcefully dragged to the surface.

“I’m sure you were busy. I know you were, with everything you told me about,” James said softly. He did not want to interrupt Francis, but it felt wrong not to say anything in return to such an admission.

“I was afraid, you know.” Francis said, still turned away. The flickering light of the fire danced across his face, illuminating his features in a way that made James’ heart clench with longing.

“That you’d moved on. To lead a glamorous life, showing off new uniforms, volunteering the extra thirty minutes of the Chinese Sniper Story.” There was an edge to his voice, similar to a mocking tone he might have used years prior, but now it was laced with something else. The words did not sting. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me when I would only remind you of… of the north. I was afraid you had forgotten me.”

“Never.” James answered too fast. His voice cracked on the second syllable. He did not clear his throat. Did not make another noise for fear that he might tell Francis something equally guarded – a destructive notion, for all Francis was revealing was regret at not contacting a friend. James’ own confession, if Francis was unaware of his regard still, would run more along the lines of a clumsy, ill-timed and misguided confession of love. He swallowed down the words with another sip of tea; _You are the one thing I remember from when I forgot all else_ , died in his throat along with _If I ever forget you, I might as well forget myself._

When he did not say more, Francis leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, relaxing minutely, while keeping his gaze trained at the fireplace. His cup was empty, but he still kept it in his hands and James was glad for it, otherwise they would both have to face the fact that Francis had to leave sooner or later.

“I haven’t spoken to anybody about… ‘bout the expedition,” James volunteered. _Except the admiralty_ , he added mentally, and knew instinctively that Francis knew his unspoken words as well as those standing in the room between them. “Couldn’t,” James managed. He took a deep breath and turned fully towards Francis.

“They want to see men who survived the expedition. They want to see the man that brought it back home. That’s you. Lieutenant Little. Thomas Blanky.” His brain struggled to find more names. “That’s not me, Francis.”

James’ tone had fallen to a whisper; he could not trust his voice anymore.

Francis opened his mouth to speak, looking up at him, but James shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be alive without you. I barely am now. You think I recovered but some things will stay with me forever. This,” he gestured to his trembling leg, “my eye, the teeth I lost. The things we saw. They don’t want to see a man the expedition broke.”

The cup clattered when Francis put it down on the coffee table next to him. His expression when he turned to James was one of rage, but his voice was oddly calm.

“No, James. No.” He reached out for James, who also put down his cup for fear of dropping it. His hand had begun to shake.

Francis shuffled closer on the sofa, until their thighs were almost touching, hands reaching out for James’, but hovering inches away, as if he was waiting for permission.

“Don’t you know I’m just as broken as you?” His eyes, when they met James’, were darkened, but not by the shadow of grief. There was that _something else_ again.

James shook his head in protest of Francis’ words, but he could not reply. Instead, his fingers twitched, as he lifted his hands from his thighs between them, as if he was begging Francis to hold them – to hold him.

“I am.” Francis’ voice was sincere and even though he spoke quietly, it seemed to fill the room. “I haven’t slept a whole night since we’re back. By day, things seem normal. I make them seem normal. But at night I’m awake listening, thinking one day I’ll hear another man scream as Tuunbaq rips him apart. And when I do sleep, the dreams make me wish I could stay awake forever. I keep reliving the worst.”

Francis’ hands were warm and steady, as they wrapped around James’. The touch alone was nearly enough to send tears to his eyes, but there was more. The way Francis looked at him, open, honest, and so truly disturbed, it made James’ chest heavy with heartache. A single tear rolled down Francis’ cheek and with all his willpower, James freed one of his hands from Francis’ hold.

He reached up slowly, so as not to misjudge the distance to Francis’ face. The skin at his jaw was rough – years at sea and in the harshest climates on earth as well as the beginnings of a beard – but the feeling of it against James’ fingertips made it all the more real. Only after several moments, he noticed that Francis was frozen in place, unmoving, scarcely even breathing. With his thumb, James wiped away the tear, then let his fingers drag over the skin as he pulled back. His hand fell against his thigh again.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. At once, the room was uncomfortably silent. Francis nodded then abruptly stood.

“I should go.”

The warm feeling in James’ body immediately froze over. He swallowed, the hand Francis had held between his own only seconds ago felt empty and cold, and James knew that somehow, he had overstepped. Somehow, he had misread the situation and come too close. Maybe Francis knew of his feelings, maybe he had guessed that James wanted to run his hand through his soft, more grey than reddish hair, that he wanted to smooth down the lines on his face and kiss every inch of his skin.

Had there been something in his eyes that had given James away? Had he held on to Francis too closely? Had he seen the desperation James tried to bury for months, the needful longing?

The flames in the fireplace were dying down, fittingly. James sighed and reached for his cane blindly. His legs protested, when he tried to stand. He breathed in deeply. He had been in this situation before. He could not break down in front of Francis now. Another deep breath, trembling between his lips. James blinked the tears away; he was not crying because of Francis but because his legs would not cooperate. He made another attempt – and stood. Slowly, but steadily, he made his way towards the corridor, towards where he heard Francis getting ready to leave. And suddenly, James Fitzjames was afraid. It was not the sort of fear he had felt close to death, not the one at coming face to face with the creature. Not the deep-rooted horror of seeing the ships enclosed in the pack that fateful September morning, years ago.

It was a bone-crushing fear of himself. If Francis left now, there was no knowing when he might return – if he would return. Heavily, James leaned against the door frame. Francis was standing next to the coat hanger, dressed to leave into the crisp late-summer night, hat in his hand, looking back at James. The same thing James had seen in his eyes earlier, standing in the same spot, was back. Dark but not grieving, nor melancholic.

“James.” It sounded apologetic, pitiful even.

After an evening of talking more than James had ever heard him talk before, Francis seemed to have run out of words. Instead he stepped closer, walked up to James. He was still slumped against the doorframe, which left Francis roughly at the same height. Francis stood rigidly, hands behind his back now, as he looked at James. He closed his eyes, half expecting Francis to be gone when he opened them again. The rustle of Francis’ coat seemed to confirm this, but when James looked up at him, Francis had merely set his hat down on the dresser.

“I have a question,” Francis said. His voice was tight, emotional. “I hope you know you can just say _no_ and nothing will change. It’s just something I… I’ve been wondering. I –“ he stopped. His eyes focused on a point somewhere next to James’ head.

He forced himself to ignore his heavy heartbeat.

“Just ask, Francis.” James sounded defeated, even to his own ears.

Francis seemed to grow another inch as he straightened out his back resolutely and met James’ good eye.

“May I kiss you, James?”

The slight tremble in his voice, the warmth of Francis’ hand where it came to rest against James’ waist, the emotion in his eyes that James now recognized as a mirror of his own – he nodded sharply.

A sigh escaped his throat when Francis kissed him. His cane clattered to the floor as James brought his hand to the upturned collar of Francis’ coat, pulling him closer. Francis nipped at James’ lower lip, leaving him aching for more, then pulled back abruptly.

James saw him swallow heavily, before he darted off.

“Francis!”

The door fell shut behind him and James was alone again. Frightfully alone.

Francis’ hat still rested on the dresser next to James.

* * *

The days after Francis’ visit passed both in a blur and agonizingly slowly.

In James’ mind there were two explanations for why Francis had kissed him. One of them was to find out if James wanted him in order to know to avoid him for the rest of his life. He would never expose James, of that he was sure, but perhaps he would never come back, never speak to him again. The other option that Francis wanted to find out if James liked him because there really was something there between them. When James heard no word from him for two days, however, he could not bring himself to get out of bed on the third.

So, when the knock came at his door that night, he was in his night gown, entirely unpresentable, but he threw on a housecoat and made his way to open the door.

Francis was turning to leave when James opened the door. His grip on the cane tightened, as his heart began to pound faster.

Francis was clearly nervous, anxiety written clearly all over his face as he turned back to James.

“May I come in?” he asked, and James stepped aside, without a second thought. He was not sure what to make of this, of Francis appearing back at his door, but maybe he was here give an explanation James had not been able to provide for himself these past days. At the thought, the tiny spark of hope that had kept James from losing his mind, was kindled into a small flame: Still easily extinguishable but harder to ignore.

Francis stepped inside and took off his coat and hat. Ran a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed. James had the urge to smooth it down, but instead he willed his legs to carry him into the sitting room. He sat down in the armchair by the window, evening sun painting a narrow stripe of bright orange on the wall next to him.

Francis joined him moments later but did not sit down. Too late, James realized he should have offered him tea. Or at least some water.

“Why are you here?” he asked instead.

“Because I’m stupid and about to make a huge mistake,” Francis muttered under his breath, but James heard every word. A twinge of pain in his chest; what was Francis on about?

“Because I need to set things right.” This time, Francis spoke louder, lifted his gaze to meet James’ eye.

His heart leapt at that, but James was careful not to let it show on his face.

“The other night,” Francis started and turned away, starting to pace. “I don’t know what came over me. I missed you so much, these past months and then I finally saw you again and… somehow it was different. The missing – the feeling of missing… goddammit –“

He turned back to face James.

“It made sense why I missed you.”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t know how to ask this, James,” Francis continued eventually. His voice was less agitated, but heavy with something else. “I – the last months were good, but I want something else. I can’t live with Ross forever and I don’t want to. I want to retire by the sea, James. In the country. London has never been… home. So I’ve been thinking… would you come with me?”

James just stared at him. Francis took a couple of steps, crossing the room and came to a halt in front of James’ armchair.

“James,” Francis said softly, his tone reminded James of how Francis had talked to him when he was barely conscious in the weeks before and after their rescue. Such depth of emotion radiated from the way Francis pronounced his name. Then, Francis dropped to his knees in front of James, reached for his hands, and looked up.

“James?”

All the doubt and fears of the last months came crashing down around James. His breath hitched, his hands began to shake between Francis’ own.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he managed to say.

In response, Francis let go of his hands and instead reached up to James’ cheeks. He was closer now, his eyes so sincere and open that it took James’ breath away.

“Why would you think that?”

“Look at me,” James replied cynically.

“You’re beautiful.”

James’ chest tightened at that.

“Don’t lie to me, Francis. Not now. I’m half dead. In body and mind. I’m broken, you saw it all yourself.”

“I saw a man stronger than any other, surviving where nobody else could have. What you think is broken just shows what you’ve been through, and survived. A show of strength, and it’s beautiful, James. You are.”

There were tears in James’ eyes now. He blinked them away and grasped for Francis’ shoulders, pulling him closer, closer.

The embrace was cathartic. The tension in James’ body, the stress of his mind seemed to evaporate as Francis held him. After several minutes of silence, Francis pulled back.

He opened his mouth to say something but James beat him to it.

“I’ll go with you.”

Francis’ face lit up at once and then his lips were on James’ in a kiss as desperate and elated as both of them were feeling in this moment.

“God, Francis,” James panted when they broke apart. His eyes were closed, but Francis was still close, huffing a laugh against James’ stubbly, unshaved skin. Their lips met again, softly this time, growing deeper as Francis managed to pull a groan from James’ throat.

Eventually, he just pulled Francis close, burying his face against his neck, while Francis’ hands settled on his back. James could live in this moment forever.

Perhaps he would.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudo and comment! I will forever love you!
> 
> might add chapter 2 and make this fic explicit, but idk yet.
> 
> You can reblog on [my tumblr](https://i-am-a-hog.tumblr.com/post/620647224708415488/longing-for-you-forever-iamahog-the-terror)


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